Friday, April 26, 2013

There's No Place Like Inner Home.

Nothing is really what it seems, when you’re a child. My
little blue house on Rogers Ave in Brooklyn was a castle. Surrounded by mammoth
brick buildings, our distinctive residence stood out like a familiar face, in a
crowd of strangers. My mother and father made me feel like a queen. Peanut
butter and jelly sandwiches piled with my favorite strawberry jam, cartoons
with my feet kicked up, and antique sofas with carved wooden moldings as
intricate as crowns; I was royalty.

We were renting the upstairs portion of the house, in a
neighborhood that crumbled around us. Flatbush in the 80’s wasn’t the greatest
place to raise a child. The environment fell into despair, buildings abandoned
and a drug epidemic underway. Our block was rampant with young adults with
nowhere to go, but everywhere to make trouble. We were often awoken, from our
slumber, due to loud parties and pointless commotions.

On one of those nights, an innocent outdoor festivity turned
into a bullet in the abdomen, of a slain neighbor. After hearing the shot, in
our very backyard, my mother, adorned in disheveled hair rollers and fear,
grabbed me and laid me on the floor, until the shots were cleared. We then ran
the five blocks to my grandmother’s house, a haven to the family in times of
distress.

I didn’t know the gravity of this story, until I was twelve.
We were living in the suburbs then, in a house reflective of my parent’s
progression and will to raise a child that scarcely knew trepidation. However,
I remember that night. My five-year-old mind deemed it a midnight game. A game
where my mother wasn’t her normal well kept self and we dashed down the
sidewalks in search of our family. Hide and go seek; we found grandma at the
door, with open arms.

My mother’s knack for interior design, a connoisseur of
thrifting, before it was a thing, the warmth she put into everything she
touched, her gentleness and genuine smile, made our dwelling a home. We bounced
from rental to rental: an upstairs apartment on Avenue H, with an old woman
that banged the broom to the ceiling, if I so much as yawned. We stayed in a
huge house, on Beverly Road, a three-floor multiplex that we shared with
immediate family. The two men that rented the basement were a shady duo; they
slipped different women in and out and even once set their car on fire, almost
kindling our home in the process.

You’d think I’d have noticed these things. However, it
wasn’t until listening to reminiscent conversations, years later, that I had
any clue of what was happening. I was swaddled in love. With all the culture,
conversation, and answered inquiry, I had no time to dabble in grown-up things.
I’d never heard the arguments between my father and the two men who he asked to
grow the hell up. I’d never witnessed my mother tell our cranky broom-banging
landlady that she needed to relax. I was told in the heat of gunfire that we
were playing a game, “We’re just going to lay on the floor, for fun, just for a
little bit.”

Home, for me, was never incessant, violent, or scary. Home
was pleasantries; it was reflective of my mother’s great taste in
African-American art, my father’s piles of books in his study, the multitude of
stuffed animals collapsed on my bed, and two parents who adored me
unconditionally. When I’m listening to the reflected moments, times when we
didn’t feel safe in the place we called our abode, I am hit with a
mind-altering notion.

There is no physicality to home. It’s reflected within us.
They way we feel about our lives and ourselves is projected onto the space we
reside in.

The collegiate dweller slings posters and torn sofas into
his domain, because it’s transitory. The nomad hangs home over his shoulders,
in the form of a bag, and plasters it anywhere he exists in. Folks, who aren’t
too happy about their lives, take less care in their surroundings, when they
aren’t content with the space inside of them.

My parents were just married and blessed with a child the
second year of their union. My father just landed a job, that kept him
traveling, but paid the bills on time. Their home was always reflective of
their evolution. The red walls of their first bedroom screamed of their
strength. The yellow walls of my own echoed the light in their life. The
tediousness of our living space was reflective of two nesting individuals, who
were stupidly in love teens, just a half a decade before. They flung their
aspirations and dreams all over their space, in the form of magnetic
refrigerator letters, bookshelves filled with magnificent prose, and pictures
of those they treasured.

I didn’t feel like I was home, a year ago.

My boyfriend and I moved into our first apartment, together,
and everything started to fall apart. We moved in haste, eager to get into the
city. Our apartment was box, a place we prayed would be temporary and we’d soon
forget. We wanted to get excited about our new place, but we couldn’t muster
it. We lived like we were passing through, neglecting to hang things we’d
purchased for our future walls, avoiding inviting folks over, and keeping boxes
unpacked.

When things started to look up, I started cooking elaborate
meals again, brought a little beauty to our kitchen, and even our bedroom. I
bought new sheets and my mother found a great piece for above the headboard. I
didn’t want to change the way we lived; I didn’t feel like our living area was
worthy of our effort. I was wrong. We walked in one day, and out of the blue,
our little box began to look a little bit brighter.

I was slowly discovering that inner peace would show
outwardly, no matter how hard you tried to stifle it.

Recently, we got an impromptu phone call from a relative,
asking us if we were interested in an apartment. We went to check out the
place, a burgundy walled and hardwood floored fixer-upper, and decided that
with a little TLC we could love it. When we discovered that we’d have to move
in, in two weeks, I was frightened. How could we move in two weeks? It wasn’t
enough time or notice. We were slowly progressing, but we weren’t ready for a
huge move. I was afraid that our haste would land us in a new space, but the
same sentiment would reside.

My boyfriend grabbed my shoulders, and washed the anxiety
from me, with his words, “Sometimes you’ve just got to take a chance babe. It’s
not the greatest place, but it’s bigger and you will make it a home. We’re
doing better and we can do more now. I think we should give it a chance.”

He was right.

We ran into a few speed bumps there: Issues with our
landlord and the deposit, because of lack of notice, and the hassle getting
some of our things out of storage. However, every bit of it was worth it. We
walked into a repainted space, dabbed with a bright yellow and white trim. The
walls were reflective of how I felt, when we said goodbye to our old area.

Optimistic.

Illuminated.

Blissful.

I’m in the process of projecting the home I feel on the
inside, to our new residence: A mismatched collage of our happiest moments
adorn the hallways, both of our past apartment’s adornments unify in harmony
here, and I’m sure the echo of our laughter can be heard, even when we’re not
here. I’ve learned, from my parents, that there is nothing we can do about the
economic, financial, and societal war outside. However, we control our
sanctuary. As long as your inner-being is aligned, your refuge will burst from
your chest and plaster itself everywhere. It’ll push your arms to grasp items
at home stores, with quotes that resonate with your current situations, it’ll
push you to pick up hammers and nail them to their chosen place.

We are painted with mediums of adaptation, our strengths
pushed into aesthetic perfection, we are not pictures waiting for a frame, and
we should never wait to be hung in exactly the right place. We are home
already, wherever we are. Our surroundings amend for what's inside of us.

Pluck your attributes, from your soul, and build a nest.
Marvel at its pieced together wonder. Stay a while.

2 comments:

I guess that's one story you don't have to tell us on Sunday lol. This hit home about my current living situation and how not at peace I am with myself so it doesn't always feel like home. You are wise Master and the lesson is loud and clear lol. See you Sunday!

So true. I moved into my apartment over a year ago and it was just yesterday that I finally decided to hang a decoration on the wall. My bookcase is still empty of books, but filled as storage with miscellaneous items. I'll work on that this week.